One should take care with one's prayers. One should not presume before the gods.
The next city, when he drew near, turned out to have been forsaken. He sent word back that he would go straight on in pursuit, and the camp must follow.
When you follow an army, you have no need of guides. We came to a river, and a ford all churned with horse-hooves. On the far side, there had been a battle. The dead lay everywhere, like some strange fruit of the land, darkened with ripeness against the pale withered grass and scrub. A faint sweet stench was starting; it was hot. I was taking a drink from my flask, when I heard a moan close by. It was an Indian, a little younger than I, stretching his hand to the water. He was done for; his entrails spilled from his wound. Yet I dismounted, and gave him a drink. Those who rode near me asked if I was mad. Why indeed does one do such things? I suppose he only lived longer in his pain.
Soon we overtook some ox-wagons, sent by Alexander for his dead and wounded. The wounded had awnings over them, and the water-bearer with his donkey went beside. Alexander always looked well after his people.
The wagoners told us there had been fifty thousand Mallians in the field. Alexander had held them somehow, just with his cavalry, till the archers and the infantry came up; then the enemy fled to the walled town, which we would see beyond the palm grove. The King had it surrounded, and would rest his men for the night.
Before dusk we reached the round brown Mallian town, with its outer battlements, and the squat walls of its inner citadel. The tent-wagons trundled about with their slaves; the cooks unloaded their cauldrons and their sacks, set up their grids and earth-ovens, to give the men a good meal after the light midday ration. Alexander ate with his senior officers, Perdikkas, Peukestas and Leonnatos, planning the attack. "I shan't get the men up before dawn. The infantry's had a long hot march, and the cavalry's had a battle. A good sleep and a good breakfast, then up and at it."
At bedtime I looked at his splendid arms, which the squires had burnished, and his new corselet. He'd had it made in India, for the heat, lighter than his old one, with the plates quilted into Indian stuff. As if he had not shown up enough before, it was scarlet, with a gold lion worked on the breast.
"Al'skander," I said, "if you wore your old corselet tomorrow, I could get this cleaned. It's dirty from the battle."
He turned round with raised brows, and grinned. "You Persian fox! I know what you're up to. Oh, no. The men need to be shown, it's not enough to tell them." He might have said that any time, but now it had a touch of sourness. Then he laid his hand on my shoulder. "Don't try to keep me from it, even in love. I would rather end as I began . . . Come, cheer up; won't you want to know tomorrow where to look for me?"
He slept well, as always before a battle. He used to say he left it then with the god.
Next day soon after sunup they closed in round the town; the wagons moved up with the ladders and rams and catapults, and the sappers' tools. For some time we could see Alexander riding about, picked out, even when small with distance, by his scarlet and his silver helmet. Then he dismounted and was hidden in a mass of men before the wall. Soon they vanished into it; they must have forced a gate.
Troops poured in after them; ladders were carried through. The walls above, which had been packed with Indians, suddenly had emptied.
I rode forward to see better, on my own. There were few followers here but slaves; the crowd was with Hephaistion. No, there had been no surrender. The Mallians had run back to their inner citadel, and thronged its walls. Hidden by the town's low mud houses, the Macedonians must be below.
A ladder reared in sight against the wall, and settled. Then, mounting it, I saw a bright flash of scarlet. It went steadily up till it reached the battlements; hung there shoving and struggling; then stood upright on top, alone.
He was using the sword. One Indian fell; another he pushed off with his shield. Then three men swarmed up the ladder to fight beside him. The Indians fell back from them. The ladder was packed with clambering Macedonians. He had shown them once again. Suddenly, like stones in a rock-fall, they tumbled down out of sight. The ladder had broken under them.
I rode nearer, scarcely knowing what I did. The four seemed to stand forever, pelted with missiles from the wall and the fort within. Then Alexander was gone. He had leaped down—on the inner side.
After the shortest pause, I expect of unbelief, the others followed him.
I don't know how long it really was before the next Macedonians scaled the wall; about as long perhaps as it takes to peel and eat an apple, or die ten times. They went up on each other's shoulders, or with ladders, or by making footholds with spears. They poured over and were gone. I mustn't expect, I kept saying to myself, to get a sight of him yet.
A group of men mounted the wall from within. They were carrying something scarlet. Very slowly, they lowered it down a ladder out of my sight. I could not see it move.
I slashed at my horse's rump, and galloped towards the city.
The lower town was empty, even of the dead, quite peaceful; pumpkins and gourds ripened on the flat roofs. Ahead, from the citadel, came battle-yells and death-screams, which I scarcely heard.
At the door of a poor house, in a street just outside the wall, three of the squires were standing, looking in. I pushed between them.
The shield they'd carried him on lay with a pool of blood in it. He was on a peasant's dirty bed, with Peukestas and Leonnatos standing over him. More squires were huddled in a far corner. There were chickens running about.
His face was like chalk, but his eyes were open. In his left side, where all the bright scarlet cloth was darkened, stood a long thick arrow. It moved, and paused, and moved again with his shallow breath.
His lips were parted, drawing in, through the pain, just enough air for life. The breath hissed softly; not from his mouth, but from the wound. The arrow was in his lung.
I knelt by his head. He was too far gone to know. Peukestas and Leonnatos looked up briefly. Alexander's hand unclenched and felt at the arrow. He said, “Pull it out.”
Leonnatos, almost as white as he, said, "Yes, Alexander. We must just shift the corselet." I had handled it often. I knew how strong that quilting was. It was pierced, not torn. The arrow-flights would not pass through it.
"Don't be a fool," Alexander whispered. "Cut the shaft." He fumbled at his belt, got out his dagger, and sawed weakly. Then he coughed. Blood came from his mouth; the shaft jerked in his side. His face emptied of life. Faintly, still, the arrow moved in the wound. "Quick," said Peukestas, "before he comes round again." He took the dagger, and scraped at the hard cane. While he whittled it, and Leonnatos held it steady, I undid the corselet-buckles. Alexander came round while Peukestas was still hard at it. He never stirred, as the barb ground in his side.
The shaft severed, leaving a handspan of pointed end. I slid the corselet from under him; we eased it off, hindered by the knots in the cane. Peukestas cut away the bloody chiton. The purple wound in the white flesh opened and closed, the air softly whistling through. Sometimes it paused; he was trying not to cough.
"In God's name," he whispered, "pull and have done."
"I'll have to cut for the barb," Peukestas said. "Get on, then," said Alexander, and closed his eyes.
Peukestas took a deep breath. "Show me all your daggers." Mine had the finest point; I had bought it in Marakanda. He thrust it in close by the shaft, and worked it outward. I took Alexander's head between my hands. I don't suppose he even knew of it, through all that pain.
Peukestas withdrew the blade, moved the arrow sideways, set his teeth and pulled. The thick iron barb came out; then a dark stream of blood.
Alexander said, "Thank you, Peukes—" His head sagged; he lay like marble. Nothing moved but the blood; and even that soon ceased.
The doorway of the hut had been thronged with people. I heard the cry that the King was dead, spreading away.
In Persia, to bewail the dead comes without thought, like tears. But I offered him, as was his due, the gift of silence. Indeed, there was nothing else within me.
They were shouting up to the soldiers fighting in the citadel, that the King was dead. The clamor inside, which had gone on all this time, redoubled. You would have thought all the world's wicked had been flung at once into the Fiery River. It reached me without meaning.
"Wait," Leonnatos said. He picked up from the dirty floor a chicken feather, and laid it on Alexander's mouth. For a moment it was still; then the down by the quill moved family.
I helped them bind up the wound with whatever we could find. Tears streamed from my eyes. That time, I was not the only one.
At last, when they dared to move him, he was put upon a litter. The squires carried it, walking softly. As I followed, something flew over the citadel wall, and thudded in the dust beside me. It was a three-month Indian child, with its throat cut from ear to ear.
Up there, the soldiers still thought him dead. They were taking his blood-price, and washing out their shame. They left no living thing there.
For two days he lay in the open hand of death. He was drained of blood. The arrow had chipped a rib. Though almost too weak to lift his hand, he did that rather than speak. He spoke when the doctor would not leave him; he ordered him to see the wounded. I had understood his sign; he never had to open his mouth with me.
The squires helped with the nursing where they could; good lads, but nervous. I asked one, outside, "Why did he do it? Did the men hang back?"
"I'm not sure. Perhaps a little. They were clumsy bringing the ladders. He snatched one and set it himself, and went straight up."
The wound, though terribly torn and bruised, never went putrid. But as it healed, his sinews stuck to his ribs. Every breath caught him like a knife, then and long after. At first, a cough was such agony he had to press both hands to his side to hold it still. To the very end of his life, if his breath labored hard he was in pain. He hid it, but I always knew.
On the third day he could speak a little; they gave him a taste of wine. So the generals came then, to scold him for his recklessness.
Of course they were right. It was a wonder he'd lived till the arrow hit him. He fought on with it in, till he fell lifeless. In his tent was the old shield from Troy, with which Peukestas had covered him; often I saw him look at it. He took the rebukes with patience; he had to, because of the men whom the ladder's breaking had trapped along with him. One had died, he owed his life to the others. But he had done as he'd meant, and forced the men to follow him. The lover was still true to the beloved; it was their eager rush that broke the ladder. He couldn't have foreseen that.
Leonnatos told him all about the massacre, to show him their devotion. He said, "The women and all the children?" and took a sharp breath and coughed up blood. Leonnatos was brave, but never quick in the head.
On the fourth day, when I was propping his pillows high to help him breathe, Perdikkas came in. He had been fighting on the far side of the town when Alexander was wounded. Having the highest rank, he was now in command; a tall man, dark-browed, both alert and steady. Alexander trusted him.
"Alexander, you're not fit to dictate a letter yet, so I've written one for you, with permission. It's for Hephaistion to give out to the army. Do you think you can just sign it?"
"Of course I can," said Alexander. "But I won't. Why disturb them? They'll start to say I'm dead. We've had enough of that."
"It's unfortunate; but that’s what they’re saying now. It seems someone carried the rumor. They believe we're keeping it dark."
Alexander pushed with his good arm (the left one dragged at his wound) and nearly sat up. I saw a stain of red on his clean bandage. "Does Hephaistion himself think this?"
"It may well be. I've sent a dispatch; but something from you would clinch it."
"Read me the letter." He heard it through, then said, "Add to that, before I sign, that I'll be coming in three days' time."
Perdikkas brought down his brows. "Better not. When you don't, it will make things worse."
Alexander's hand gripped the blanket. The red on the bandage spread. "Write down what I told you. If I say I'll go, in go."
He went, seven days from when he took his wound.
Once more I was with him on the river. He had a little tent in the stern. Though it was not far to the water, the litter's jogging had worn him out. He lay like the dead. I remembered him standing in the prow, with the wreath on his hair.
It took two nights and three days. For all I could do, a galley is short of comforts; and he felt the pull of the oars. He never complained. I sat by him, fanning off the water-flies, changing the dressings on his great half-scabbed wound, and thinking, It's for Hephaistion you are doing this.
Now, I can see he would have gone for the men alone. He had never named any deputy, in case he should be past choosing one, nor any successor if he fell. It was not that he would not think of death; he lived with it; but that he would not give one man such a place of power, or expose him to so much envy. He knew well enough how it would be at the camp, while they thought him dead. Three great generals were based there, Krateros, Ptolemy and Hephaistion, each with equal claim to the high command; the troops well knowing it; knowing too that if he were dead, the Indians would rise up behind them and before. Had I asked him why he was going, he would have answered, "It is necessary." But I remembered his voice saying, "Does Hephaistion think that?" and I nursed my grief.
It was late afternoon when the camp was sighted. He had dozed off. As he had ordered beforehand, the awning was furled up, to let him be seen. He was already among the army; the whole riverbank was thick with men awaiting the ship. When they saw him lie unmoving, a great wail broke out, spreading all along to the camp. It could not have been more if a Great King had died at Susa. But it was not custom that drew it from the Macedonians. Sheer grief wrung it out.
